


Nonsequential

by Sunlocke



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: But he is aware of them, Gen, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Sans Doesn't Remember Resets, Some talk of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 07:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11778606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunlocke/pseuds/Sunlocke
Summary: They're on the surface, and Sans is afraid he'll wake up again. Luckily, he knows a robot who has a way of making him realize he already is awake.In which a former ghost gives a skeleton a pep talk on living.





	Nonsequential

**Author's Note:**

> They are dating, kind of, it's the only thing I ship. Sorry.

Sans doesn’t really make himself hard to find, less than fifteen feet from the front door, accompanied by the clack-clack-clack of his pencil against his perpetually bared teeth. His hunched form makes a distinct blue smudge against the grass, even in the dark. Mettaton rolls across the grass with only a few bumps to join him, getting a look at the notebook spread in front of his small skeleton, full of graphite scribbles that Mettaton could eventually work out if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. He generally acknowledges enough math to keep his businesses in order, but whatever this is, he’ll leave to Sans.

“THE STARS ARE BEAUTIFUL TONIGHT, AREN’T THEY?” Sans’s head jerks up, eyes pricked with white light. “AND I’M NOT EVEN TALKING ABOUT MYSELF,” Mettaton adds. He comes to Sans’s side, retracting his wheel to sit beside his friend.

Sans’s gaze flicks up for a second, not long enough to truly take it all in. Mettaton, at the same time, studies him. He sure has a lot of eye luggage for a skeleton. Any airline would charge him extra for that. “yeah, sure is.” He rubs his eyes, as if he noticed Mettaton staring even though it’s impossible to tell what the rectangle is looking at. “...sure beats a bunch of glittering rocks. uh, mtt, what are you doing out there? it’s two a.m.”

“YES, SO I COULD REALLY ASK YOU THE SAME THING. WELL, I WAS GOING TO BERATE YOU FOR NOT BEING THERE TO ENTERTAIN YOUR BOYFRIEND WHO LITERALLY CANNOT SLEEP, BUT NOW THAT I KNOW YOU WERE OUT HERE SOLVING THE MYSTERIES OF THE UNIVERSE, I MIGHT GIVE YOU A PASS.” Mettaton looks upside-down at the book of scribbles. “WHAT IS IT THIS TIME? BLACK HOLES?”

“uh.” Sans pulls the notebook closer, finger running along the long edge of the cover, like he’d want to close it if that wouldn’t look so suspicious. He shrugs. “little bit of everything. you know, time, space, the existence of multiple universes. the usual stuff.”

“THE USUAL STUFF INDEED. WELL, I HATE TO BREAK IT TO YOU, DARLING, BUT YOUR IMMEDIATE DUTY IS TO MISTER SANS THE COMIC, UNIVERSE PRIME, 2:08 ON A THURSDAY MORNING.” Mettaton’s large gloved hand engulfs his own, warm like a living thing should be. “YOU’RE CHILLED TO THE BONE, SANS.”

Sans wriggles his fingers in Mettaton’s grasp. It’s inescapable, but he doesn’t mind. There’s a sort of comfort in it. “heh, yeah, you’d think so, but the cold just goes right through me. i don’t let it get under my skin.” If he had a heart, it would be thrumming faster than there was any excuse for.

“YOU SAY THAT, BUT YOU ARE _SHAKING_ , DARLING.”

…oh boy. It’s not like he can just explain that the shivering has nothing to do with the cold, and everything to do with the sickening twist in his would-be gut and the crushing weight inside his skull, flattening his brain. Could he just call it stress? Anxiety? Mettaton understands those things. Well, Mettaton potentially understands a lot of the things Sans is worried about, but it’s hard to say he’s afraid that none of this matters. That it might not even be real. It’s just a flimsy waste of time until it’s all undone by the kid asleep in the house across the street right now who’s probably murdered them all in the name of curiosity before. And this, too, is just for the sake of some sick need for completion, just one of many alternate endings to the kid’s favorite book that someday they won’t be able to resist rereading anymore. How can he explain that he’s afraid of waking up in Snowdin again, buried six feet under one more time?

Doing the math helps, in some way. If he can prove, put it down to numbers that there’s a meaning to it all. Some kind of sense to the universe. All that he can think of is a countdown to the end of all meaning, the worst possible end where the kid hunts them down for fun and everything just- it all just _ends_ in splashes of red and gold and black. Is that all there is to this? It’s what he comes back to every time.

“you wouldn’t believe me if i showed you, but i filled my jacket with 1000 angry bees for this very moment,” Sans confides in Mettaton.

“YOU’RE RIGHT, I WOULDN’T. BUT I APPRECIATE YOUR SENSE OF HUMOR MORE WITH EACH PASSING JOKE.” Yeah, why not make a joke? If that’s all his life is, just one big joke with no punchline. Sans stares down at his hands, teeth clenched tighter than normal, painfully so. One hand each, Mettaton gently plucks the pencil and notebook away for him, setting them to the side. “UH, EARTH TO SANS. YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’D FLOAT AWAY IF I WEREN’T HOLDING YOU.”

The skeleton glances at the man next to him, eyesockets blown wide open. He blinks. “sorry, mtt, i guess i was just spacing out. were you worried about me?

Mettaton throws his hands to the infinite sky overhead. Sometimes it looks flat, but Sans swears that tonight, he can see it arcing away, deeper than he had ever imagined. “HEAVENS NO. DON’T FLATTER YOURSELF.” The robot pauses. “UNLESS THERE’S SOMETHING YOU WANT ME TO WORRY ABOUT.”

“nah. nothing. worrying takes way too much energy for my tastes. i just-“ he grunts, smacking a hand to his face. Suddenly, he’s just tired. Mettaton reaches around himself to flip his switch, his long-legged form settling back next to Sans with a transformation that never ceases to awe him.

“GO ON. I’M LISTENING,” Mettaton insists, laying down on his side in the grass, pulling Sans without protest against himself. He’s warm. He’s a shield against infinity.

“mtt, what would you-“ Sans drags a hand down his face. “what would you do if the universe just, just _reset_ , like some big game, everything was brand new and you and no one else remembers any of it either?”

Mettaton doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this, but he doesn’t seem to mind. A little smile quirks his lips. “THEN I’D GET TO MEET YOU ALL OVER AGAIN.”

It takes Sans a minute, and then he really laughs. “oh my god. you’re so fucking cheesy.”

“EXCUSE ME, MY FLIRTING WAS REFINED BY ONLY THE MOST POETIC OF ROMANCE MOVIES. NOW IF ONLY IT STARTED RAINING, WE COULD MAKE OUT PASSIONATELY UNDER THE STARS AND LET THE SUNRISE MELT OUR FEARS AWAY.”

“i still don’t have lips, metta.” A little of the weight on the corners of his smile lifts. At least, he doesn’t feel like his teeth are grinding down to nothing.

“DRAT IT ALL. WHY IS IT I HAVE TO DO ALL THE WORK IN THIS RELATIONSHIP? I’D ACCUSE YOU OF NOT PULLING YOUR WEIGHT, BUT THAT STILL WOULDN’T BE FAIR, NOW WOULD IT,” says the eight foot, solid metal robot to his bones and more magic bones sweetheart, half his size. Mettaton’s lips smush against the top of his skull. Sans can feel the waxy imprint left behind.

“are you by chance wearing lipstick?”

“IT’S BRIGHT PURPLE. MAY NEVER COME OFF. I DIDN’T THINK OF THAT. WELL, THEN, EVERYONE WILL KNOW YOU’RE MINE.” There’s silence for a moment. Sans watches the faintly changing pink wash of Mettaton’s core over the grass in front of them. “THAT QUESTION, THOUGH,” the robot begins. “I KNOW I ANSWERED FLIPPANTLY, BUT IT KIND OF FELT LIKE… HAVE YOU ASKED ME THAT BEFORE?”

“…i don’t think so.” Maybe the answer he got can suffice, at least for a little while.

“WOULD IT REALLY MATTER IF YOU DIDN’T REMEMBER? YOU WOULDN’T BE AWARE OF IT ALL HAPPENING AGAIN. LIFE PROCEEDS AS NORMAL, I SUPPOSE,” Mettaton muses.

“maybe i framed it wrong. so, say you’re one of the only people who knows that ‘reset’ thing is a thing that can happen. wouldn’t you be scared that it could just end any second? just like-“ Sans snaps his fingers, eyes wandering the sky. “-that?”

“NOT AT ALL,” Mettaton proclaims quickly, jarring Sans. “WELL, OF COURSE, BUT I WOULD LIKEN THAT TO MY REALIZATION ALSO THAT I MIGHT JUST DIE AT ANY MOMENT. OF COURSE THAT’S THERE IN THE BACK OF MY MIND, BUT I DEAL WITH THAT THE SAME WAY EVERYONE DOES- THROUGH DENIAL. AND I GET ON WITH LIVING WHILE I CAN. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO ABOUT IT? WHATEVER IS GOING TO HAPPEN IS GOING TO HAPPEN. I’M NOT GOING TO PISS MY TIME AWAY WRINGING MY HANDS OVER ‘COULD BE’ WHEN I CAN BE OUT THERE CHOOSING AND MAKING MY OWN ‘IS.’” If Sans breathed, it would be choked up in his throat right now. “THE CREDITS WON’T ROLL UNTIL THE MOVIE IS OVER. LIFE IS NOTHING BUT A BIG GAME YOU WIN AND LOSE BY DYING, I’VE HEARD THAT ONE TOO, BUT THE ONLY WAY TO WIN IS TO PLAY.”

“oh.” Sans rolls on to his back. What are these stars anyways? They’re made of the same stuff monsters and humans and the grass and dirt underneath him are. All this time, and they’re still here. Maybe he’s meant to still be ‘here’ too. Wherever that is at any given moment.

“LOOK, DARLING. I WON’T PRESS, BUT I KNOW THAT’S NOT A QUESTION YOU’D ASK IF IT WEREN’T IMPORTANT. I DON’T KNOW EXACTLY WHAT IT MEANS TO YOU, AND I PROBABLY TRIVIALIZED IT WITH A COMPARISON TO DEATH, BUT JUST REMEMBER, I’M HERE. AND SO ARE YOU. YOU’VE TALKED ABOUT IT BEFORE. MAYBE WHEN YOU THOUGHT I WASN’T LISTENING. ABOUT THE POINTLESSNESS OF BEING HERE. WELL, WE AREN’T HISTORY YET, SANS. WE’RE BEAUTIFULLY AND IRRESISTIBLY HERE AND NOW. SOMEDAY, WE WON’T BE, HOWEVER THAT COMES ABOUT, BUT AS LONG AS I DID SOME GOOD AND HAD SOME FUN ALONG THE WAY, MAYBE I’LL LEAVE SOMETHING BEHIND WORTH REMEMBERING. OR AT LEAST SOMETHING THAT MADE THE LIVING WORTH IT. MAYBE THAT’LL BE ENOUGH.”

Sans is still scared.  It won’t change like that. It’ll probably never change if his fears are proven right. If that’s the case, he won’t even remember this conversation. But if he’s afraid, maybe it shouldn’t be the end-all be-all of his existence here. Easier said than done, but even if things start all over, he’s still Sans, who likes to eat good food and make bad jokes and love his family. And he’ll still have Paps, right?

“it’s hard to think about, metta. it just makes what i’ve done feel pointless. like i shouldn’t even try. just think, if this does all start again, i’ll be meeting the you you were before i fell in love with you.” Mettaton has expressed before that he doesn’t want to be that person again, full of lights and fame and no love to be found. Sans glances over, to the Mettaton next to him. His eyes are black, and warm. Like rich soil. Like the night sky, only waiting to be filled with stars and all the other mystery and wonder that’s still out there. The things that still give him hope.

The robotic star gazes back at him, then turns his head to the sky. Sans can see the steam of his warm _breathing_ in the cold air.

“THEN YOU CAN SAVE ME ALL OVER AGAIN.”

Maybe that, too, can be enough.

Mettaton’s hand finds his again, fingers winding together, and Sans feels okay. This is okay. Here, now, is _okay_. Maybe whatever is to come is coming on too fast for his liking, but before it hits, it’ll settle into the present, which he’s been managing pretty well all along. Mettaton’s hand squeezes his. “I’M GLAD THAT OUT OF ALL THE PERMUTATIONS OF TIME AND SPACE, OURS ALIGNED.”

“…yeah. me too.”


End file.
